He Loved Me in Silence for Five Years

You can sit next to someone for years and still never hear the words you long for.

That was me with Hassan.

We met in university—two awkward freshmen trying to survive registration chaos and cheap hostel tea. He offered me a seat in the cafeteria when everywhere else was full. That tiny gesture turned into study sessions, late-night phone calls, shared exam panic, and eventually… friendship.

Strong friendship.

But that’s all I thought it was.

I didn’t know then that he loved me in silence.

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For five years, Hassan never told me.

He was always just… there.

When my first boyfriend ghosted me, it was Hassan who brought me fries at midnight and made me laugh until I forgot how much I was hurting.

When I got a job interview and my nerves were eating me alive, he rehearsed answers with me until I felt brave.

When I moved into a new flat and everything felt cold and unfamiliar, he helped me unpack books before anything else—“So it feels like home,” he said.

He never asked for anything.

He never hinted at more.

Just support. Just loyalty. Just presence.

But love was hiding in his silences.

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Looking back, the signs were there.

The way he always remembered how I took my tea. How he’d wait outside during my late classes without saying a word. How he bought a second charger “just in case you forget yours again.”

The kind of love that never announced itself. It just stayed quietly in the room, hoping to be noticed.

But I didn’t.

Or maybe I chose not to.

Because I was in love with someone else—someone who made grand gestures and said all the right things. Someone who, eventually, left when things got hard.

And all that time, Hassan stayed.

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We graduated, and life scattered us in different directions.

Different jobs. Different cities. Less texting. Fewer calls. But once a year, without fail, he’d send me a message on my birthday:

“Still rooting for you.”

Just four words. But they felt heavier each time.

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Then, last year, I got the news.

Hassan had moved abroad for work. I only found out through a mutual friend. No message, no goodbye. Just... gone.

It felt strange. Off. Like someone had taken down a photo from my wall and I couldn’t remember what it looked like.

I messaged him. No reply.

Two months later, a letter arrived.

An actual, hand-written letter.

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I unfolded it slowly. His handwriting hadn’t changed.

He wrote about the new city, the people, the food. But halfway through the second page, his tone shifted.

> “I know this might surprise you.

Maybe confuse you.

Maybe hurt you.

But I need to say it—because silence has been my only language for too long.”

> “I’ve loved you, quietly, for five years.

Not in the way stories scream about love.

But in the way rain falls at night.

Constant. Soft. Unnoticed.”

> “I never told you because I was afraid you’d walk away.

And I would’ve rather had a little of you than nothing at all.”

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I read the letter three times.

I cried on the fourth.

It felt like someone had opened a door I didn’t even know was there—and behind it was a love that had been patiently waiting for me to see it.

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I didn’t know what to do.

Should I call? Fly to him? Write back?

But I didn’t do any of that.

I just sat with the truth.

And the guilt.

And the ache of not knowing sooner.

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Sometimes I imagine what would’ve happened if he had told me earlier. Would I have loved him back? Would I have seen what was right in front of me?

But life doesn’t give us “what ifs.”

It only gives us “what is.”

And the truth is—he loved me in silence.

And I loved him in ignorance.

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It’s been a year now.

We haven’t spoken since the letter.

I don’t know if he still loves me.

I don’t even know if he wants to hear from me again.

But I still keep that letter in my journal.

Folded neatly.

Like a secret I now carry for both of us.

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Author’s Note:

Some people love you so gently, you don’t hear it until they’re gone.

If you feel it—say it.

Before silence becomes a goodbye.

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